


Deprivation

by teamfreetitan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (nothing too violent or gory but explicit mentions of using guns and whatnot as it is a mob au), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee Shops, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Hitman Jones AU, Internal Conflict, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated for violent themes and sexual references, Violence, book stores
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreetitan/pseuds/teamfreetitan
Summary: Alfred didn't particularly want this life. He didn't particularly want the killing or the guilt under layers and layers of guarding himself. He didn't particularly want to be an egg, with a firm, outside but a soft inside. He didn't particularly want to avoid close personal relationships, and he didn't particularly want the loneliness.And he sure as hell didn't want this situation.But he had learned two things: sometimes you don't get what you want, and sometimes you break.(A/N: I am not going to finish this story but I will leave it up for a little while. I am going to make up for it by incorporating the elements in this story into another story!)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This work does include mentions of violence, particularly with shooting guns, but it's not gory, psychopathic, or anything else; I tried to approach with with a factual but not disturbing approach. Nonetheless, please don't read it if this sort of topic upsets you. Rest assured that there is a happy ending though!

Alfred F. Jones was twelve years when he committed his first murder.

Until high school, he was schooled at home by a private tutor employed by Arthur. He didn’t need some fancy state institutions when they had a perfectly fine teacher at their disposal; he could teach Alfred all he needed while adapting to their schedule and avoiding pesky people, so this was ideal, Arthur insisted.

Too young to know different or disagree, Alfred complied.

On that particular morning, his teacher, Antonio, had been called off. They had plans that day, Arthur told Alfred.

It was sometime in the late morning, after Alfred’s daily bowl of cereal, that he was called from his room and into Arthur’s office. He’d never been allowed in that room before, except for once which he only vaguely remembered; he had been pulled in, paraded around, and sent back out. This time, he wished it had only been simple twirling for guests. What he found was much worse.

Against the back wall were several ceiling-height bookcases, filled with more files than books. The wide, dark, wooden desk in front of them was strewn wild with papers; on the side closer to the door there were two seats as well, similar to a desk one might find in a principal's office when they were about to be scolded. Though the desk was usually the center piece to an office, all attention was drawn to the two men in the middle of the room.

The first man, standing, was Arthur. Not quite Alfred’s father but the closest thing he had to one. He donned his usual sweater over a button up; today he wore a sweater with a forest pattern over a green button up. 

The second man was kneeling on the floor, hands yanked behind his back and bound. His face was turned towards the floor, hidden by a curtain of hair, until he looked up at the young newcomer. Bruises lined his strong features and blood flew from his mouth. The only thing Alfred could compare it to was the deer he had shot before, when Arthur got him into hunting at age ten.

“Alfred,” Arthur said, stepping closer. “Can you help me with something?”   


“Yes, sir.”

Arthur lifted his right hand and put a handgun in it.

This feeling - the curve of the metal under his fingers - wasn’t new. He’d been hunting for years now. Deers, ducks, whatever, you name it. As soon as he was old enough, at the age of ten, he’d been enrolled in classes, and he went hunting with Arthur often. But never had Arthur placed a gun in his hand and asked him to aim it at a man. Never had his arm been moved until the end of the gun was on a man’s forehead.

“In my business, Alfred, this is what we do with bad guys. Do you understand?” The man sobbed. “Shoot it.”

Alfred didn’t move.

“I told you to shoot it,” Arthur repeated. He squatted down so he was close to the boy, even letting him be taller. He touched his arm softly, letting his voice go soft with it. The harshness dripped out of it as he said, “Alfred, I need you to do what I ask. You trust me, right? I’ve never given you a reason not to. So, Alfred-”

Alfred pulled the trigger, and the sobbing man was silenced. The sound echoed throughout the office and faded away. Alfred hadn’t realized he was crying.

“Good.” Arthur stood up, knees cracking. He called in two men he employed to clean up the body and take it away. Alfred wasn’t sure what they did with it.

The house they lived in was large; Alfred and Arthur each had rooms, but many of Arthur’s employees lived there, too. Alfred wasn’t allowed outside of certain areas of the home because they were work areas. Arthur promised he’d be permitted one day, but for now, was confined to his room, the living room, and the kitchen. He needed permission to go anywhere else, but as Arthur reminded him, they had butlers who could take care of any other needs he had.

They took the body to one of the room he wasn’t allowed in.

“Arthur,” Alfred peeped as he approached the desk Arthur had retreated behind. “Why did you have me do that?”

“Sit down. Do you know what my job is?”

Alfred was confused as to why that mattered. “You do contracting,” he answered. It was the same sentence he’d seen Arthur tell anyone who asked. He did contracting. Contracting was an adult thing; Alfred barely knew what that meant other than an agreement. But Arthur did it, and it let them have a big house and lots of employees.

“All the people who work here and I work to take out bad guys. They’re doing bad things and this is how we combat it. That might be confusing to you, but as you get older, you’ll understand more. One day you’ll take over for me. Does that make sense?”

Alfred nodded.

“Good.”

 

* * *

Alfred was fourteen when he first walked through the front doors of the local high school. Not once had he even been in a public school, yet now he was a full time student. Arthur had enrolled him, telling him that he needed to develop some social skills over the next four years. All honors classes, too. Needed to be smart and charismatic. 

“In our field, that’s what you need.”

In the days, he attended school. Arthur had been right in the full honors schedule; he ended his first year with all A’s, even in the harder classes. Though he stumbled through the social interactions at first, he had seen enough to become relatively social by the second semester. He had watched Arthur make deals for the last two years - that fateful day had marked his involvement in the crooked family business - and knew about charisma and negotiation. Alfred also adhered to the social rules his father laid out.

First, never talk about the family business. If it was mentioned, always revert to the baseline: contracting.

This was just fine with him. Like he wanted to go to school and talk about how he’d been forced to shoot a man on the forehead when he was twelve? Or his up close and personal experience with bodies? That would set him back on Arthur’s social development goal for sure.

Second, no friends at the house and always get Arthur’s consent before hanging out with anyone.

Still fine. Again, there was no interest in telling anyone about the family work. He also tended to not hang out with many people; he had spent so much time on his own that he almost preferred it, even when offers to bond presented themselves.

Third, and last, ask instead of tell.

It was always better to ask others about themselves instead of talking about yourself, Arthur insisted. That way, Alfred could collect information about others, avoid revealing too much about himself, and earn their trust and respect.

This was also the year that Alfred learned about the man he had killed. The first one, that was. He was a former employee of the ring Arthur ran; specifically a hitman, as Alfred was being trained to be. Arthur had been old friends with the man, too; they were close. He’d decided he’d had enough of the gig, and the guilt that went with it. He hadn’t been raised to be a killer and the blood on his hands left scars on his heart. When he decided to turn himself in - and expose everyone else along with him - Arthur decided that he couldn’t have that happen. It was better to kill the man: that’s what they did anyway.

Alfred never learned the man’s name.

Anyway, Alfred knew that if he ever tried to get out of it, Arthur would know, and Arthur would kill him.

Arthur loved Alfred, or at least he said he did. Alfred trusted him. But there were times that he was so dismissive, or so controlling, or so manipulative, that Alfred faltered. He might love him, but he loved his job more; he would kill Alfred if he needed to.

It never presented itself as dismissiveness, or control, or manipulation; this is what Alfred knew growing up, and it was the only thing he knew. For all Alfred knew, everyone’s fathers (or father figures, anyway) milked every detail out of their day, or dug their nails so deep into their skin when holding their arm that they bled, or got a sort of distant look in their eye, as if they were considering killing you. 

That was normal.

Except, walking through those high school days, that tarp of normalcy fell away.

Alfred asked, and didn’t tell. He learned a lot about different family dynamics in the first few months and developed an internal model in his head. Most kids didn’t like their parents; so why did Alfred regard Arthur with such a disturbing disregard of his work and borderline worship of the man who raised him? Most of his peers acted with autonomy, going where they wanted after school and not bound by rigorous schedules; Alfred had a strict regimen which included limited homework time, and no time for clubs or sports, so that he could continue what had grown into almost on apprenticeship. Most teens in his classes didn’t have jobs; Alfred had what could be compared to an internship.

Teachers tried to recruit him for sports; the football coach was nothing if not persistent. He asked time after time, telling Alfred he had the frame to be a quarterback. 

Alfred really, really, really,  _ really _ wanted to say yes. But Arthur wouldn’t let him, so he didn’t bother asking Arthur in the first place. Simply turned the coach down time after time.

And his peers were really inquisitive about him. The mysterious blonde boy, soon a sophomore, who they knew nothing about. Sweet, and always concerned with others. But at the end of the day, his image had turned almost suspicious. The only information he let slip shaped a sculpture of an idyllic life: school, an internship, hot, and selfless. He became so guarded that he seemed flawless, and that was suspicious. People knew something was off, but couldn’t place their finger on what.

The truth was that, while the outside had become a hard shell, it wasn’t impenetrable yet. And when it was penetrated, it revealed that it was protecting a soft, gooey, defenseless center.

“We should go to the movies this weekend,” one of his friends proposed to the group in their English class. “But we need someone to drive. Hey, Alfred, if you go, could your dad drive us?”

“My, uh, dad?” he asked, taken aback by the question.

“Yeah, your dad. I’ve seen him pick you up, so I thought maybe…” his friend trailed off.

Alfred understood the confusion. “Oh, that was my driver. Arthur wouldn’t be able to take us. But I might be able to swing something with the driver if Arthur lets me.”

Another one of his friends piped in. “Why do you call your dad by his first name?”

As a child, Alfred had been distinctly aware of the fact that Arthur wasn’t his father. He was told so multiple times, and Arthur asked to be called Arthur. So he did. This was another one of those things that wasn’t weird until he started high school and began to interact with his peers. Alfred quickly pulled on his defensive face, his guarded face.

“He’s more of an adoptive father, really.”

“What about your real dad? Did he die?”

Alfred was shocked by the question. According to Arthur, people would stop after he told them he was adopted; it was a sensitive subject. He didn’t know how to respond, so he muttered a soft, “I don’t know.”

This shut the kids up, at least, but it didn’t get rid of the collective exhale of, oh, shit, he  _ doesn’t know what happened to his own father _ . No one said anything, but the collective pressure of his peers weighed on him, and he found himself racked with the same guilt he had felt the night he murdered Arthur’s employee: it was a sort of guilt that he was told he shouldn’t feel, but that he did. The guilt of “acceptable” murder. The guilt of not knowing who he was or where he really came from.

But Arthur did what he did best with uncomfortable emotions: he turned it into curiosity.

Arthur didn’t let him go to the movies that weekend, because he had a field day. 

(That was Arthur’s inconspicuous term for his nights out on his internship. Determined to make Alfred the best - having been raised in the business, after all - he began sending Alfred out on mission with well seasoned hitmen when he turned fourteen. That particular evening he was helping an employee go after a domestic abuser, whose wife had paid for him to be “hit.” Easy in and out, Arthur said, so it would be good for Alfred to ride along. Hey, he might even get to kill the guy!)

But that weekend, he did ask about his father. His mother. Grandparents. Did he have siblings? Even if Arthur wasn’t his father, that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. What happened to them?

This sent Arthur into a rage. There was a lot of yelling, and he came close to slapping the teen boy, but refrained. Instead, Alfred was sent to his room, alone, and without answers, having been told never to ask about - or think about - his parents again.

Arthur came in a little while later, apologizing. He always apologized to Alfred. He brought him a cup of chamomile tea and ignored the tear tracks borne into his cheeks.

“Your parents don’t matter, Alfred. They’re not here. It just you and I. And I love you. I’m sorry for yelling at you, really, but you can’t ask about them anymore. I’m serious: don’t even think about them. They’re there and you’re here. You’re my hero, Alfred, or at least, you will be soon. Don’t think about them; think about the fact that, because you’re here, you’re a hero. Can you say that for me?”

Alfred sighed. “I’m a hero.”

It was quiet and dejected, barely a whisper. He’d failed to get the answers he wanted.

“I love you, Alfred.” Arthur stood up and walked away.

 

* * *

At age seventeen, Alfred graduated from high school as the salutatorian. He turned eighteen that July, on the fourth, and Arthur promoted him from an intern to the business to a full employee. He was officially allowed to go out on his own to confront cases that Arthur gave him.

One might think that Alfred would have built up enough contempt to try and get out of it, but he had become a mixing pot of disassociation, fear, and custom. 

Those gut wrenching emotions which would make him feel bad about it had been squashed - not gotten rid of, but squashed. He still felt guilty of course, but Arthur had taught him how to cope with it. The first was to remind himself that it was the right thing to do. They killed  _ bad _ guys, and why should he feel bad about putting a bad guy in his place? It was for the betterment of humanity. Plus, he trusted Arthur, so he should trust Arthur to give him cases that he wouldn’t be guilty about. Furthermore, he did with those emotions what he did with his life to the outsiders: he his it. If he stashed it beneath the surface, he could do his job properly. So what if he never came back to them? What did it matter?

Then there was the fear of telling anyone. Arthur seemed to know what every one of his employees was always doing, saying, or even thinking. Alfred, as a son figure, as his hero, earned a bit more trust than them, allowed to go out on his own and interact with others… sometimes. But he knew, he  _ knew _ , that if he gave Arthur a reason to, he wouldn’t hold back.

Besides, he’d been raised into it. His murder wasn’t the first time he’d killed anything; he was a hunter after all. Maybe dealing with the messes was unpleasant, but if he closed his eyes, it was just like hunting. The thrill of the chase was just the same. He’d been raised like this, so it stopped hurting him like it used to. Just like hunting. That was what he kept telling himself to keep himself sane.

There were even several pieces he enjoyed. Particularly, the research. He liked reading about his victims and why they people were paying to have them hit. Hours and hours he had spent, pouring over psychology books and websites to understand better. He had always been clever, hadn’t he?

Point being, he accepted his job even if he didn’t always like or agree with it. This is was he was raised to do, and at this point, one might even say born to do. Both by fate and by circumstance, he was trapped here, so he might as well suck it up and deal.

 

* * *

 

 

He walked on to the nearby college campus as an eighteen year old. He had convinced Arthur to let him go for criminology, persuading him by telling him that, not only could they afford it with the high amounts of money they made from hitting, but that it would help him with his job by getting into the minds of these criminals and by knowing what to do and what not to do.

He glossed over the fact that he was already in the mind of a criminal, being one himself.

Nonetheless, Arthur agreed.

He gained sophomore status his first year on campus due to the advanced classes he had taken in high school. It allowed for him to get into the meat of the courses faster - this was ideal, especially for Arthur funding him. He had a lesser workload with the prerequisites out of the way, which allowed him to work for half the week and study for the other.

That criminology 101 class was where everything went downhill.

Not that the hill had been very high to start, but, hey, apparently you’re never at the bottom.

Alfred was kicked back in the front row, leaning so that the back of his chair dug into his shoulder blades. His feet were pulled up and pressed against the desk, making his position similar to that of a fetus. Alfred looked over his knees at the expansive whiteboard in the front of the room, absentmindedly thinking. His latest case was a drug dealer, and those were pretty easy to get. They’d gotten a lot of dealers recently, and Alfred was getting suspicious. Nonetheless, he’d gotten some information on the guy. Should be easy and quick. The way he liked it.

A tall man walked through the door, and for some reason, it jarred Alfred. It wasn’t the noise or the movement - the room was bustling - and he couldn’t quite explain why he’d been startled. Regardless, the tall man walked over to the seat next to him. 

“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked. Alfred shook his head.

He was blonde, but not warm, strawberry blonde like Alfred. More of a platinum. He was big and strong, and his voice carried with it a slight accent. Slavic, maybe?

“I’m Ivan,” he said. “And you are?”   


“Alfred Jones!” he exclaimed with a smile.

Oh, yes, Alfred was going to go downhill. Though he wasn’t very high to begin, it was going to hurt when he fell.


	2. Two

 

A couple weeks came and went. The classes he was taking, including Criminology 101, were easy; he was familiar with the material long before enrolling, and if anyone thought it was weird that he knew all the types of murder, prerequisites for each, and punishments for each before the professor had taught it, no one spoke up about it. The rest of his week was spent researching the drug dealer. It was supposed to be a quick in and out, really.

That was what Alfred had thought, anyway. Every hit Arthur had instructed him to do in his life was like that, with the goal being death. Granted, Alfred didn’t have the most diverse portfolio. Despite having helped or researched for many, he had only been an “official employee” for about a year. Still, when it came to his line of work, that was diverse enough.

However, Arthur instructed, this was not a simple in and out. They needed information. This guy wasn’t like the run of the mill dealers they’d been going for lately. He was supposed to kidnap him; they needed information.

“Arthur, I hardly think that’s-” Alfred said, beginning to object. He stumbled over his words, sputtering out, “We can’t just kidnap him, or _torture_ someone-”

It would be weird for someone not in the line to think he would object. Surely a hitman would have no issues with torture; afterall, death was a harsher punishment. That line of logic slipped through his mind, but no, they were different. Neither moral, of course, but perhaps Alfred’s actions were the lesser of two evils. Punishment, but his way was quick and painless. To kidnap someone, to torture them… That was slow and harmful. Just thinking of looking in their eyes as they cried out… He knew he couldn’t. Alfred never looked anyone in the eyes as he killed them.

It was how he justified it in his mind when he knew in his gut it was wrong. They were criminals who he was punishing quickly and painlessly, without personal association. It kept him from tearing himself apart with guilt.

“Fine,” came the response, interrupting him. “I’ll give the case to someone else. More capable.”

That took Alfred aback. _He_ was capable. That was what Arthur had insisted for years, growing up. Alfred was the most capable, he was the strongest, and he was his hero. Now, Arthur pushed him back for someone else. Had Arthur been lying all these years, or was this a test to push Alfred to be strong? Either seems realistic.

“No, wait, wait, I’ll do it.”

Arthur stood up, walking around the desk. Alfred had been taller than him since he was a sophomore in high school, so he bent his head down at Arthur’s beckoning. His father figure placed a kiss on his forehead. “Good boy,” he said. “I knew you’d come around.” A yellow file folder was slid between his fingers, and he was sent out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Ivan’s fingers reached over, sliding over Alfred’s forearm. The Slavic man - Russian, Alfred had found out - leaned over, glancing down at Alfred’s notes. They had a half an hour in class to work on the reading and questions from the textbook, which was a rare luxury in university. Alfred got the idea that he might be struggling a little bit; he had moved to America as a senior in high school, so it gave the usual language barrier air of ignorance, in which Ivan probably knew what it was talking about but was barred by language skills.

Alfred glanced up at the touch on his arm. He wasn’t sure if it was a Russian thing, but Ivan seemed weirdly touchy. In some reading he’d done when he was younger, he’d read that Russians didn’t really have a personal bubble, so that must have been it.

Some sort of turmoil was stirred by it. He had never lived in an overly affectionate household and in fact made a point of avoiding contact. Yet, Alfred, always single, never kissed, never touched, found that the repressed side of him didn’t particularly mind the feeling of warm, calloused fingers on his arms. This new sense of touch sent him spiraling, thinking himself downwards on the spiral. How would those fingers feel elsewhere? Even if he had pushed away any relationships, those desires didn’t just disappear with it.

“What does that word mean in English?” Ivan asked, his breath tickling Alfred’s neck. His finger pointed towards the letters from the page.

“Stigmatize?” Alfred asked. “It means, like, to judge or disapprove of. It’s usually with social groups, so that’s why they’re talking about it with hate crimes.”

Ivan nodded thoughtfully, his fingers still sitting on Alfred’s bare arm. The American boy was certain he was going to go crazy sometime soon. He was sure Ivan had touched him more than Arthur and anyone else on the face of the planet combined. Except maybe as he held down victims - no, criminals to be punished, this criminology class was really getting in his head - before killing them. He pushed the thought from his mind, not wanting to associate Ivan’s warm touch with his acts of aggression.

An impulsive thought shot through Alfred; his instincts moved him to ask Ivan to coffee. Of course he shoved the thought away. He found himself putting a lot of thoughts to the side recently, especially since he began college. A piece of him wanted to keep feeling that touch, wanted an excuse to chase it further. But Ivan’s fingers slipped away and he let the idea go with them.

 

* * *

 

Alfred slid the case file out of the yellow folder, giving it a once over.

_Name: Vsevolod Braginski_

_Age: 52_

_General information: Day job working as a pharmacist at the corner store on Bonville Avenue and Grand Street. Three children - one son and two daughters. European immigrant. Widowed. Drives a blue Honda Civic._

Reading through it, Alfred found that it was any normal case. He’d have to do some more research on the man’s habits, that was for sure, but he imagined it would be pretty easy to find a routine, since he worked a stable and routine job and had kids who would likely also be on schedules. He let his mind work. If he dropped into the corner store a couple times, he was sure to see him working one of those times. Figure out the schedule, follow him home, get his address, figure out the kid situation.

Younger kids were an issue; Alfred hated dealing with them. They tended to be at home most of the time, often with a babysitter or other adult. They were loud and involved, without filters. If they saw, he couldn’t do anything about it; as a general rule, he only killed those he was sent to kill and he never hurt or killed kids, so he would have to let them continue, running their mouths about who they saw kill daddy or mommy. Which meant he would have to get the guy some place in public, which was always risky. Older kids were better; they were often out of the house or in their room with headphones. Alfred was able to get into the home with little intervention.

Tomorrow, then after class. He only had Criminology 101 tomorrow, so the rest of the day was dedicated to work. The class met in the late afternoon, which was convenient because as it reached the end of the day, his future victim would be getting off of work.

Alfred closed the file, putting it in his backpack, deciding to hit the hay.

 

* * *

 

Ivan’s hands were on him. They were tugging at Alfred’s shirt, sliding under the thin cotton material, pushing at all sorts of places that Alfred had barely ventured to touch himself. As they snagged his waistband of his pants, the same could be said. Alfred was panting at the touches, bending into them to make them more forceful. Ivan’s hands were soft, gentle, kind, but too kind. Alfred wasn’t used to soft or gentle or kind. He let out a cry-

Real Alfred woke up in his bed. It was a dream. Everything was fine. He felt a biting sense of disappointment that it had all been a dream, though.

He shook it off, as he shook off everything else. A relationship was only an illusion. Alfred couldn’t do that to someone, couldn’t be with them when he lived like this. He punished bad guys, and to do that, he had to sacrifice attachment. What would he do if he dated someone and they asked to meet his parents? Asked what he did for work? How would he explain the late nights out when he couldn’t tell the real reason? How could he explain the blood?

Besides, Arthur had taught him for a long time that he was to keep to himself. That was why he rarely did things with friends in spite of the fact that he had many in high school.

Yet, his gut longed for that touch. He had never kissed anyone.

It didn’t matter. His mission in life wasn’t kissing or touching or _anything like that,_ no. It was to punish criminals and do what Arthur told him and so forth. And, right now, it was to do as he did: slide out of bed, throw on clean clothes, brush his teeth, and get a ride to campus to go to class.

Ivan was already there when he took his seat, and Alfred averted his eyes as he remembered how Ivan looked in his dream, with cheeks all red with blushing and parted, plush lips. He had a dark shine in his eyes as he pushed Alfred this way and that way. Alfred allowed himself to look over to remind himself that Ivan didn’t look like that; his cheeks were pale as Russian snow and his lips were pursed tightly in frustration as he looked down at his workbook. His eyes seemed almost dark as he read, shadowed by his defined brow bones. Most importantly, his hands were kept to himself.

Of course, this was “doesn’t know about personal space” Ivan, so it didn’t stay that way for long.

Right at the end of class, as Alfred shoving his book in his bag, he accidentally bumped the yellow case folder out of the backpack, sending papers flying. Without glancing over his shoulder, he yanked the papers close to his body, all out of order. Ivan reached to help him but his hand darted out to take it from his grasp before he could glimpse the words. The printer paper ripped half the page, but Alfred just threw it in the file, yelling for Ivan not to worry about it.

His warm hand settled on his shoulder. “Are you alright, Alfred?” he asked. “You seem really tense.”

Alfred shook his head, putting everything in his backpack. He was supposed to go find what’s-his-face at the pharmacy this afternoon, but the anxiety of the blunder made him anxious; if Ivan had read the name, and anything happened or he saw Alfred with the man, it would be suspicious. If Ivan saw something he wasn’t supposed to-

Alfred knew the consequences he would face.

“Fine, fine.”

“If you’re feeling well,” Ivan began, “would you be interested in doing something together? In a date way?”

Alfred, already shocked and surprised, choked on his words. “A date?” he questioned.

Ivan nodded. “I don’t have any classes after this, so could perhaps get coffee or something of the sort. There’s that coffee shop in the bookstore down the street, and I go there all the time. You might like it if you’d want to go on a date with me. We could walk there now.”

Alfred became very aware of the hand that was still on his shoulder.

If only Ivan knew, Alfred was certain he wouldn’t be asking. He was a hitman with a case file in his backpack who had never so much as kissed anyone. What merits did he have other than this illusion of decency? And here Ivan was, tall and muscular with a pretty accent and strong yet soft hands, a strong yet soft hand which was _still on him_.

He debated mentally. Ivan couldn’t become too involved in his life. Committed. Alfred didn’t live a life that men could commit to. But he wanted to say yes.

Maybe… Maybe he could swing it. If it was nothing serious, if it was without commitment, if it took place away from Alfred’s home, and if it didn’t become suspiciously overbearing… Maybe he could swing it and get the experiences to tide him over until he grew up a little more and was able to control the feeling more. Yes, that could work.

So he blurt out a quick, “Yes, yes.”

Ivan smiled, those pink lips pulled taught over his Colgate-white teeth. He motioned to his bag on the floor. “Shall we go?”

They went.

The walk over to the coffee shop bookstore combo was brisk in the early fall weather, but the conversation went well. They stuck to more surface level discussions, talking about school and movies and books. Alfred was relieved at that; it gave the illusion that Ivan was getting to know him without the actual pressure to reveal anything about himself. The pair sat in the coffee shop and chatted while they drank their drinks; Ivan had paid. When they were done, they walked around the bookstore, poking fun at the various novels.

“Here, look at this one,” Alfred laughed, surprisingly naturally. “It’s called ‘Cowboy Passions.’”

Ivan snorted, telling him to read a random page.

“‘Her body throbbed as his cerulean orbs passed over her extensive bosoms.’” Both of them burst into giggles. The romance section in this store, they had discovered, was a riot. Alfred glanced up, looking at Ivan. He had a pretty laugh.

It was weird to consider how much he was enjoying this. Until he was in his teens, he hadn’t interacted with anyone out of his home, and rarely beyond Arthur or his tutor, Antonio. When he was in high school, Arthur had had him on such a rigorous schedule that he didn’t have time to expand any relationships, which had built a mentality of isolation, in which he would be charismatic to his peers but leave it in the halls of the high school. Now, he was in university, and he had more freedom. He could make decisions like getting coffee with Ivan; he could let himself feel _this_ , this pang in his chest upon seeing the other laugh.

A lovely little pang which was immediately silenced by remembering that he would have to cut things off before they got too attached. He couldn’t get Ivan involved in this life. But, hopefully, once the semester ended, they could go different ways and Alfred could let him be free.

He had doubted a lot recently, had to push a lot of things away. He grasped at the sense of normality, even if it was a fucked up normal.

Glancing at the other, he knew that Ivan would make him doubt more and more, and his doubt was a dangerous thing. It was easier to continue the way he always had - the way he was meant to continue.

“What is it, Alfred?” Ivan asked. His cheeks burned as he realized he had stared at Ivan as he zoned out.

He shook his head. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Ivan stepped closer. “Were you thinking too hard about that book?” he asked with a laugh, his voice dipped in a slight saultry drawl. He reached his hand out to put it on Alfred’s hip, and, surprising himself, Alfred let him. There is was again, that new and interesting touch that he was supposed to push away, but just couldn’t bring himself to.

The next thing he knew, Ivan’s lips were against his. Alfred let his hands lift to wrap around the taller man’s neck as his hands settled on his hips. He tasted like the coffee he had just finished a few minutes before. Where their noses touched, Alfred could feel the strong, Slavic bridge of Ivan’s nose. Under his arms, he felt Ivan breathe in sharply, and Alfred let himself be pulled closer. When they broke apart, he was breathing heavily.

Oh. So that was what it was like to kiss someone.

Ivan smiled brightly. “I really like you, Alfred,” he confessed, letting those warm fingers push a strand of blonde hair from his face. They fell to straighten the black bow tie he wore over his white button up.

Internally, Alfred was screaming, “Why, why?” But his heart winced. He settled on agreeing: “Me too.”

Ivan began to put his arm against the bookcase when he suddenly threw it in his pocket, fishing out his phone. Alfred caught the screen tell them it was a little after six in the evening. He opened his messages, reading the text thoughtfully.

“My dad’s here to pick me up. We only have one car and he has to use it for work, so I get rides from him in the morning and evenings around his schedule. But unfortunately I have to leave. I had a really good time. Maybe we can do this again?” Ivan asked. Alfred found himself nodding before he could so much as think differently. Ivan stepped forward to press one more chaste kiss against his lips. “I’ll see you later, Alfred.”

As Ivan slipped out the door, Alfred sat at the table in the coffee shop to text his driver to pick him up.

Of course, he would have to figure out some reason he was at the coffee shop instead of doing work. If the driver didn’t ask, Arthur would. Despite the increased autonomy that came with being at university, Arthur was still overbearing and pushy. Nerves about getting in trouble, Alfred supposed. With everything that had happened, there was a lot he would have to figure out, it looked like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read. Expect another update coming relatively soon (next two or three weeks hopefully) and probably some more rusame fics on my profile. I'll definitely have content coming! I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far, and feel free to drop any predictions in the comments ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates will be coming soon around my Fruk fic, La Peinture Jaune, which I'm also working on! ;3


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